


Cantankerous

by R_Rosewood



Category: Big Hero 6 (2014), BigHero6CartoonSeries
Genre: Bisexual Female Character, Character Study, Female Protagonist, Gen, POV Female Character, POV Third Person, Self-Reflection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:13:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23543686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_Rosewood/pseuds/R_Rosewood
Summary: Momakase reflects upon Obake and tries to comprehend where the hatred for him stems from.
Relationships: Bob Aken/Momakase
Kudos: 8





	Cantankerous

**Author's Note:**

> (I thought this character was severely underrated and had a lot of potential that wasn't tapped. I wanted to explore her a little more, through these snippets of her thoughts.)

Momakase valued, above all, her freedom, and had spent a lifetime cultivating the patience to maintain it.

The patience to _wait._ The freedom to _do._

_Wait until they're least expecting the knife. The betrayal._

_Wait until everyone's backs are turned; everyone's eyes elsewhere._

_Wait until the blood has been cleaned, the suspects arrested and the glass replaced._

_Wait._

_And do it again._

So when a child - _a child_ \- had planted a boot squarely in her face and sent her stumbling into a prison cell, had _taken away_ that freedom, she'd felt an anger so coarse and livid it ran through her as though she'd touched a live wire.

It _burned._

. . .

So she'd waited. Not for him - never again for a _him_ \- but for a chance, _her_ chance, to reclaim that freedom.

Weeks passed, and quickly she ran out of roof to chalk her days into the concrete; jumping from wall to wall like a tennis ball being batted from one end of a court to another, refusing to allow her skills to grow dull as she marked another day lost, another day spent sitting and seething in silence, anger thrumming through her veins.

. . .

Her first impression of Obake had been that the man was sharp. Too sharp. From the deep slashes of his cheekbones to the hard edge of his jaw, to the points of his elbows and the slant of his hips, everything about him was a little _off._ A little _wrong._

Momakase looked at him and saw herself in the way he moved; the man never ran - she couldn't image Obake running - but he sauntered, took every step with purpose and intent; he never stumbled. He never faltered.

When he turned his gaze to her, she felt the lack of warmth in eyes much too cold like a slap in the face. She recognised those eyes, and it _stung_ : those were eyes that had long since lost anything resembling humanity, or kindness. Those were eyes that had long since been blinded by ambition. Obake was unable to see anyone as anything but a tool to be used and discarded, or thrown away entirely.

People, to him, were only ever in the way.

( _People, to her, were only ever in the way_ ).

She also knew that if she were to trace Obake's spine, she'd feel the same sharp peaks and valleys as her own. The same pale, marred skin criss-crossed with rough, grey scars - consequences of a youth filled with pride and childish mistakes. ( _She'd danced with knives, he'd danced with live wires. In the end, the consequences had been the same_ ).

She looked at him and saw herself, and she hated it.

She hated _him_.


End file.
